Exposure (22 page)

He wasn’t expecting anyone. His friends were all at school, where, thanks to William Braddock’s suspending him out of “concern for you, Anthony, until this all gets resolved,” he was no longer allowed to be. In one sense that was fine with him. By the end of Wednesday he’d been more than ready to leave and not come back. Then he’d suffered through Thursday, too, because how cowardly would it have been to stay home? All day, he’d gotten looks, and questions—which he couldn’t answer except to say, “It’s bullshit, trust me,” but not everyone trusted him. He was the guy who’d been secretly sending out porn to underage girls, a real creeper. Except for Cameron and the few other girls in his circle, the girls at school had avoided him and the teachers had acted as if he’d been skulking around the local preschool looking for victims to flash or abduct. Except for the black mark it was going to be on his school record, Braddock’s decision to suspend him was a favor.

The car outside obviously wasn’t UPS or FedEx. It was possible that the mail carrier drove a white car, and was delivering a package that wouldn’t fit in the mailbox. If so, the ringing bell would be a courtesy only, and at any moment he’d hear the carrier return to the car and he’d see the car back out and leave.

The bell rang again. Something that needed to be signed for, then. This was what he hoped as he made his way down the short hallway and down the stairs, and as he pulled open the door. What he found instead was a somber-looking pair of middle-aged men, one in a button-down white shirt and gray pants, the other in a khaki uniform shirt and black tie, black pants. The first was holding up a sheet of paper. “Are you Mr. Anthony Winter?”

“Why?” Anthony challenged, then, thinking better of his attitude, he said, “Yes. Why?”

“I’m Investigator Ronald Winship, with the Wake County Sheriff’s Office. This is Deputy Morales. I have here a search warrant to find and remove from these premises any and all of the listed items.”

He handed Anthony the warrant. It was similar to his arrest warrant, a fill-in-the-blanks official form that in this case gave permission to search for and take into custody a list of things that made Anthony’s eyes widen as he read: laptop personal computer, desktop personal computer, all portable data storage devices, portable media storage devices, any personal or business-use cellphone that had a camera device and/or the ability to display images, any and all cellphone portable data storage devices, and any kind of camera, digital or other, and applicable portable data storage devices that he or his mother might own, along with the necessary cords for powering the devices.

“Hang on. What’s this for?” he asked, though he had a good idea of the answer. The thing was, he hadn’t anticipated the police coming for his computer, let alone anything else. He’d worried only that his mom would want to check it, so he’d moved certain things from the computer to a flash drive, and password-protected others. Which was fine subterfuge under normal circumstances. “Normal,” however, no longer applied.

“For search and seizure of the items as stated. Please stand aside and allow us to enter.”

Anthony remained in the doorway while he tried to think of a way to stop them. “I’m, what, supposed to just give you all my stuff?”

Winship nodded, and made a note on the warrant. “That’s correct. We prefer that you surrender it willingly, but we’re authorized to get it by whatever means necessary.”

Anthony saw the deputy move his hand to his waistband, where a simple dark holster held a pistol and the too-familiar handcuffs. Whatever means necessary. He couldn’t imagine they’d actually shoot him, but hell, maybe they would. Or maybe they’d haul him back to jail for another talk with the magistrate. He said, “Look, I didn’t mean I
wouldn’t
 … So, yeah, okay, I guess you should just, er, come in.” He backed up from the door so they could step inside.

Winship said, “I’ll start down here.”

“Maybe I should call my lawyer first?” Anthony said.

“Sure, call,” the deputy told him, “but it’s a warrant. Your consent is not a factor here. We will detain you during the search if required.”

He recalled the press of cold metal against his wristbones. “No need. I’ll just—my stuff, it’s upstairs, so I’ll just get it—”

“Deputy Morales will accompany you,” Winship said.

“Oh. Right, okay.”

Anthony led the deputy upstairs to his room, wishing he’d gotten dressed before coming to the door. A quick glance confirmed that his phone was not in sight, as he’d thought. It would be tucked under his sheet or pillow, still waiting for Amelia to get access to some telephone and give him a call. What little he’d heard about her since Monday had come solely from Cameron, who’d told him about the Wilkeses’ spin story claiming she was out with mono. Now, of course, thanks to the vultures who’d reported his arrest, everyone knew that he’d gotten busted on porn charges, and while most would not connect his legal troubles with Amelia’s absence, their close friends already had. Cameron’s job now was to keep the lid on things so that Amelia would remain safe from the wolves that had been snapping at his heels all week. And to keep him apprised of how Amelia was doing, and to let Amelia know that he was all right.

“Why was the warrant issued?” he asked, grabbing his jeans from where he’d left them on the floor, and stepping into them. Not that wearing pants made any actual difference; the violation was going to take place regardless.

“Additional information is required, pertaining to your arrest earlier this week.”

“Like what?”

“Like, additional information.”

“When will I get my stuff back?” Anthony said, as he reached for his desk’s top drawer.

“Slowly!” the deputy barked, startling Anthony. He glanced over his shoulder to see the guy standing with his hand on his gun.

Anthony moved aside so that the deputy could clearly see his hands opening the drawer. Opening it s-l-o-w-l-y. His hands shook. “I don’t—that is, don’t worry, I don’t even own a gun. Not even a BB gun. I used to play paintball, but I sold the marker on eBay a while back.” The camera waited right on top where it had sat, unused, for months; Amelia’s was the one they used. He took his from the drawer and handed it over. “The memory stick is in it.”

Morales opened the access door to the camera’s battery and, yes, memory stick, then snapped it shut. “The iPod too,” he said, indicating it with a nod.

“Why do you need that?” Anthony asked, dread creeping over him, filling him, cinching his stomach and gut. They would not find pictures of him on there; they’d find pictures of Amelia. Amazing, beautiful pictures from late summer taken inside an abandoned barn, images never meant for anyone else to see. His password would be no barrier for the techies whose job it was to recover or remove data.

“
All
electronic media storage devices. Do not attempt to alter the data,” Morales said, hand extended.

Anthony took it from his bedside table and gave it to the deputy. Morales unplugged the headphones. “You can keep these. Where’s the power cord?”

“Here, hooked to my computer,” Anthony said, going to his desk and unplugging the iPod’s cord. “This is a desktop, obviously, so—”

“I just need the tower,” the deputy said. “Do not attempt to power it up. Disconnect the power and peripherals and flash drive—which I’ll need, and carry it downstairs.”

“When will I get my stuff back?” Anthony asked again, as he worked to disconnect all the cords from the back of the computer. His hands were sweaty, and he could not stop them from shaking. If they found everything that was stored in his computer and on his iPod and in his phone, his troubles might be only just beginning. They’d pinned him with a charge he never knew existed, so there was no telling what else he might face. Worse, if Amelia’s father got the report, he would lock her up or move her out of the country. He’d file a restraining order. He’d come after Anthony with pruning shears and rope.

Anthony continued, “Because, you know, everything I do—homework, email, check the news, the weather—I mean, my life is pretty much all in here.” As well as more photos, and emails, and things he’d written about her that were intensely private. Suppose Wilkes got hold of the sonnet where he’d described the sea-brine taste of her, or the soft slope of her inner thighs? Suppose he read the journal entry about the day they cut their afternoon classes and made love three times in the woods near Falls Lake? The details—positions, explorations of acts they hadn’t tried before—weren’t fit for any father’s eyes, let alone a father whose daughter was thought to be not only inexperienced but chaste.

“When the investigation has been completed and the case resolved, you’ll get it back,” the deputy told him.

Anthony finished with the cords and turned the tower back around. “How long does that usually take?”

Morales paused, then asked, “Are you employed?”

“Yeah. I work part-time—I’m still in high school.”

The deputy didn’t ask why he wasn’t at school this morning; maybe that answer was apparent. What he did say was, “You might want to think about investing in new stuff.”

“Are you serious? That long? How can that be legal?” Anthony stared at the deputy, whose round, smooth face betrayed no opinion. “Anyway,” he said, “I already told the police what happened. She already told them, too, and our statements match, the police told me they do. I don’t see how any of this is necessary.” He should never have let them in. But what choice was there? Sour dread rose in his throat, and he thought he might be sick.

“Lift that, and precede me downstairs,” Morales said, in a tone that reminded Anthony which of them was in possession of both a weapon and the authority to use it. He swallowed hard, and complied.

In the living room, Winship waited with several empty bags in hand, in varying sizes. The deputy handed him the camera and Winship selected one of the bags, each of which was clearly marked with the word
Evidence
in bold letters, and dropped the camera into it. He used a Sharpie to write on the bag, then he set it on the end table and picked up a roll of tape. “Set that here,” he told Anthony, then quickly taped the disc drives shut before pulling an evidence bag over the top of the tower and then upending the bag, which he wrote on as before. They went through the routine again with the flash drive.

Winship said, “Your phone, son, where is it?”

“Lost.”

“Is that right?”

Anthony said, “I’ve looked for it everywhere. I don’t know what happened to it.”

“Have a seat, then, and Deputy Morales will keep you company while I try to resolve that problem.”

“It’s not here,” Anthony said. “I’m pretty sure I lost it at the mall. And I called them, but nobody turned it in yet. Probably got stolen.”

Winship nodded to Morales, who put a hand on Anthony’s shoulder and pushed him slightly, a suggestion, an encouragement, to take a seat.

He sat, and listened miserably while the investigator moved about his bedroom right overhead. His pulse pounded, making his head throb. Morales stood with feet splayed, hands clasped behind his back, watching Anthony, saying nothing, waiting for what Anthony suspected he knew was about to happen.

“Eureka,” Winship called.

Morales smirked at Anthony. “Good try,” he said.

When they were finally gone, Anthony paced from the front door to the back, living room to kitchen, his feet traversing a straight line because his thoughts were anything but straight. He’d been raped and robbed, that’s how it felt, and it was a travesty—and it wasn’t as though he could call the police and report the crimes. He knew he should tell his mother, but he didn’t want to call right now and disrupt her day. He couldn’t call Amelia. He should, he supposed, call Mariana Davis, so that at least she would know how he’d been screwed in yet another way. And to ask what he could do to protect Amelia. Maybe Davis would be able to get an injunction or something, whatever it was that could prevent the police from investigating further. Didn’t they need
just cause
to do this? He had certain rights, didn’t he? If he had a goddamn computer, he could look it up.

The attorney’s business card was tacked to the refrigerator door. Anthony got the house phone and dialed her number. When her assistant put his call through, he said, “The cops just came with a search warrant and took pretty much every electronic device except the TV, and I need to know if you can stop them, and if you can’t, I need to know whether whatever they find in my stuff is going to get back to Harlan Wilkes.”

“Okay, first, take a breath. Are you breathing, nice and deep?”

He did as directed, feeling some of his anxiety escape as he exhaled. “Yeah, I’m breathing.”

“All right. Now, if they already got a warrant, it isn’t likely I can stop them. Tell me what they’re going to find,” Davis said, and when he told her, she replied, “Hm. That’s unfortunate. You’d better strap yourself in. Wilkes may become the least of your troubles.”

Anthony said, “If you mean statutory rape, then A) everything was consensual, and B) I thought that only applied to people under sixteen.”

“Oh, no, it’s completely legal for you two to have sex. I don’t want to be alarmist, all right, so I’m not going to predict anything specifically. But if the DA takes a shovel and flashlight to the statutes, he might dig up some ugly charges for you. I’ve worked in Wake County for six years now, and I can tell you, Gibson Liles—he’s the DA—has a moral streak that would make a preacher want to adopt him.”

Anthony cringed, thinking of such a man at his desk with the photos and emails and journal details spread before him like a feast. He cringed at the thought of Liles phoning Harlan Wilkes—they were probably already pals—to describe for him the road his daughter was traveling. “I’m worried for Amelia. It’s already martial law over there.”

“Your loyalty and concern are honorable, but not practical. We have to focus on you right now.”

“It’s not me versus her.”

“It will be.”

ACT II